The
Tradition of Buddha’s Robe
A Dharma talk given by Sr. Candana Karuna
At IBMC 9-24-06

During
the past year, I’ve noticed a lot of people wondering
about Buddhist robes: why are there so many different colors
and styles, why are they worn, what do they mean, what’s
the big deal? It can be confusing. Doubly so here at IBMC,
where there are not only many Buddhist traditions represented,
but there are also differences in robes among those ordained
within the American Vietnamese Zen tradition of our founder,
Dr. Thich Thien-An.

Answering questions about Buddhist robes is easy on the surface,
but each answer seems to lead to more questions. For some
Buddhists, these answers are important; for others, even the
question of robes is extraneous. Sometimes one explanation
contradicts another or even seems to go against the spirit of
Buddhism.

I like questions. I don’t have all or even most of the
answers, and I still have questions, because in researching this
subject I’ve discovered that for almost every statement
I’m about to make, you can find a completely different
answer. Sometimes, it’s simply that the different
schools of Buddhism have different explanations or ways of doing
things; at other times, language issues arise and translations
are not reliable.

At any rate, this morning let me present you with what I have
learned, my best guess, in trying to demystify the Tradition
of Buddha’s Robe.

Siddhartha Gautama, the man who would become Buddha, was born
a son of the Shakya clan and grew to manhood in an entitled and
sheltered life during the 6th century BCE in India. Encounters
with sickness, old age and death shattered his complacency and
made him question the privileged experiences and assumptions
of his life. He renounced home and family in order to
devote himself to answering the questions of suffering and, as
was the custom, traded his fine clothing away for that of a mendicant
seeker.

So, what did beggar’s clothing look like? In most
representations of the Buddha, such as the figure on our altar,
his clothing looks pretty good: classic simplicity – clean
lines and not a hole or stain in sight. Presumably,
that’s because he’s usually shown after his
enlightenment, when his robes were cared for by attendants and
replenished by donations.

But even if you find a statue of the ascetic Siddhartha – hollowed
cheeks, sunken eye sockets and ribs like desiccated bones – although
he looks terrible, the loincloth looks neat and tidy. Take
it with a grain of salt, because there are no contemporary portraits
extant. In fact, it was hundreds of years after he passed
into parinirvana before anyone thought to make an image of the
Buddha. And art, by its nature, idealizes. So, don’t
look to statues or artwork as a primary source – they simply
tell you about the culture in which they were created.

But here’s what we are told in the sutras about mendicant
robes during that time. They were made from discarded scraps
of cloth, or what is called in Sanskrit pāmsūda or
pāmsūla. There are various lists identifying
what constitutes pāmsūda. For example, cloth that has
been 1) burned by fire, 2) munched by oxen, 3) gnawed by mice,
or 4) worn by the dead. The Japanese equivalent of pāmsūda
is funzoe, a polite translation of which is “excrement
sweeping cloth” and indicates another potential source.

These scraps were scavenged from the trash, out in the fields,
by roadsides or even from the cremation grounds. Any truly
unsalvageable parts were trimmed off and the resulting bits were
washed and sewn, piecemeal and without pattern, into a rectangle
large enough to wrap around and cover the mendicant. Then the
rectangle was dyed, using gleaned roots and tubers, plants, bark,
leaves, flowers or fruits, especially heartwood and leaves of
the jackfruit tree, which resulted in a variable and generic
color known in Sanskrit as kashaya, denoting mixed/variegated,
neutral or earth tones. It’s also defined as "color
that is not pure" or "bad color." I have also
been told that it refers to colors considered ugly, colors chosen
to renounce that culture’s values. This also ties
in with another connotation of the word kashaya, which is impurity
or uncleanliness, reflecting back to the source of the cloth
used.

We’ll return to color and style later, but this is the
clothing Siddhartha Gautama wore as he studied with and surpassed
several prominent teachers of that time, and undertook to master
the most severe ascetic practices. Even then, he found
them as ultimately empty of answers as was his early life. Finally,
he turned away from those paths, sat down under the Bodhi tree
with his questions and found the solution to suffering.

After his enlightenment, he began to teach and many of those
who heard his teachings – mendicants, former teachers,
householders, even his own family and royalty – left their
pursuits and followed him forming the Sangha of monks and, later,
nuns. Their clothing was not codified, and various sutras
refer to a variety in dress, some of it fairly fantastic. Tradition
has it that those who ordained with the Buddha, as well as the
Buddha himself, primarily wore the mendicant clothing of that
time, essentially the same worn in India today; they all wore
some version of a simple, serviceable, Kashaya robe.

This caused a problem for a Buddhist king named Bimbasara, who
wanted to pay homage to Buddhist monks but was having trouble
picking them out of the crowd. One day, he complained and
asked the Buddha to make a distinctive robe for his monks. They
were walking by a rice field in Magadha at the time, and Buddha
asked Ananda, his personal attendant, to design a robe based
on the orderly, staggered pattern of rows of the rice padi fields.

This original Buddhist robe comprised three parts, layered depending
on activity and weather, and was therefore known as the “triple
robe” (tricivara in Sanskrit):

1. Uttarasanga
is the normal clerical robe. It is a large rectangle, about
6 feet by 9 feet, worn wrapped around the torso and covering
one or both shoulders. Although all three parts were made of
kashaya fabric, this piece was the robe that came to represent
Buddhism as it traveled to other countries, and it came to be
called the Kashaya Robe. With its five-fold or five-column
rice field pattern surrounded by a border, it is regarded as
symbolic of a Buddhist’s relationship with the Buddha and
his teachings

2. Antarasavaka
is a lower robe, wrapped around the waist to knee like a sarong
and tied at the waist with a flat cotton belt. According
to the monastic rules or Vinaya, a monk could wear it by itself
if he was on his own, sick, crossing a river or looking for a
new Uttarasanga.

3. Sanghati
is an extra robe, often made of two layers, which is used for
extra warmth or may be used, spread out as a seat or bedding. It
is sometimes folded and placed on one shoulder.

This “triple robe” traveled from India throughout
the world as Buddhism spread and was adapted, as Buddhism has
adapted, by each country and culture it encountered.

I’d
like to go on a brief tangent and mention robe relics, those purported to be
of an actual, worn-by-the-Buddha variety. A tradition of hand-me-down
robes was extant during the Buddha’s lifetime; the sutras tell us when
Ananda agreed to become the Buddha’s attendant, he stipulated that he
would not take any of the Buddha’s robes because he didn’t want
to create the appearance of favoritism. Since the Buddha taught for 45 years
after his enlightenment, he undoubtedly went through quite a few robes, and
there are quite a few stories of such robes or pieces thereof.

One of these relics was entrusted to the Buddhists of Sri Lanka
by the Emperor Asoka in the 4th Century BCE but, unfortunately,
the Buddha’s Robe relic disappeared or was destroyed during
one of the many Chola invasions between the 9th and 13th Centuries
CE.

Another story of such a robe comes from Zen Buddhism, which holds
that the Buddha gave his robe to Mahakasyapa in testament to
his deep understanding, evidenced when the Buddha held up a flower
in silence and Mahakasyapa smiled, the only one to see the Buddha’s
teaching. Some believe the 28th Indian Patriarch/1st Chinese
Patriarch, Bodhidharma, brought this very robe to China and go
so far as to say that it was passed to succeeding patriarchs
until the Fifth Chinese Patriarch passed it to Hui-neng, with
the instruction that there would be no more passing of the robe. Not
every Zen Buddhist believes this in a literal sense; I personally
suspect the Buddha’s Robe, at least in this case, was more
symbolic of Mind-seal transmission than involving any actual
original garment.

Back to the “triple robe,” which arrived in China
with Buddhism well ahead of Bodhidharma, although it wasn’t
Chan (which became Zen), and once it left India, the form of
the “triple robe” as well as the terminology began
to change. The Sanskrit word kashaya was transliterated into
Chinese as jiasha in Mandarin, kasa in Cantonese, and came to
be applied specifically to the Uttarasanga, or normal clerical
robe.

While India’s climate is temperate, and the three rectangular
robes provided sufficient warmth and protection from the elements,
even a double-layered Sanghati didn’t cut it in China. So
the Chinese layered additional, Taoist-style robes and jackets,
or what we would recognize as kimono (although that’s a
Japanese term), under the kasa. These garments had sleeves of
various types, from relatively close-fitting to what we Americans
think of as the archetypical Asian sleeve, the pendulous dogleg
that may or may not be closed at the wrist.

China did not have a mendicant tradition, wherein monastics would
be supported by the populace (nor was it likely official support
would be forthcoming from a government steeped in Confucianism
and Taoism). In order to be as self-sufficient as possible,
Chinese monastics farmed and performed manual labor in addition
to religious practice. Because the wrapped “triple
robe” is not designed or conducive to this type of heavy
work (especially when it’s freezing), the monks developed
wrapped leggings, split skirts (like culottes) or pants as alternate
forms of the lower robe or Antarasavaka.

The kasa, itself, also went through some changes. The original
Uttarasanga had five columns in the rice field pattern and was
large enough to simply wrap around the body and shoulders. Once
Buddhism had left India, four small squares inside the outside
corners and two larger reinforcing squares near the top border
on either side of the center column were added to the kasa, modifying
the original design. Ties and straps, or fasteners were
attached, often in the form of a ring and spoke.

At some point, perhaps in China, Korea or Japan, a smaller version
was developed, like the one I’m wearing which we call the
rakusu. It has the five columns and is worn around the neck like
a bib. The origin of the rakusu is one of the confusing questions
for me. Some say that it developed during the transition
to manual labor in China, because a full kasa was cumbersome. Some
say it was originated during a time of persecution, so that Buddhists
could wear the kasa, hidden and safe, under their outer clothing.
It’s also been suggested that started as simply the “cloth
bag that wandering monks wore to carry alms bowl and other small
items,” which was later “formalized as a monastic ‘accoutrement’.” There
are even Japanese scholars who believe that it was developed
in Japan during the Edo or Tokugawa Era, as the result of sumptuary
regulations which limited the size and fabric type of clerical
wear (I suspect a bit of nationalism, here).

The other big change to the full-sized kasa was the addition
of columns as the monastic advanced in ordination and power,
whether spiritual or temporal. The basic five-fold robe
expanded to accommodate a system of rank modeled after the traditional
nine-grade hierarchical Chinese law, so that five grew to seven,
to nine, to 11, 13, 15, 17, 19, 21, 23 and 25 strips of cloth,
often of rich or rare fabrics, providing a physical proof of
one’s status.

Buddhism spread from China to Korea, and the Koreans adopted
the term Kasa. They also maintain the rakusu or small kasa
tradition, but did add a shortened kimono-type robe to be worn
under the kasa.

Korean Buddhists introduced Buddhism to Japan, although eventually
it was Chinese influence that overwhelmed and was wholeheartedly
embraced by Japanese Buddhists: Taoist-style robes with wide
arms, purple kasa, multiple columns, work clothes and all. The
Japanese transliterated the Korean/Chinese kasa to kesa, or okesa,
which is simply a polite Japanese format. The Japanese
adopted the distinctive and practical work clothes, which they
called samue, as the everyday working uniform of the monastic. They
also created a new form of kesa, by developing a black wide-sleeved
kimono-style monk’s robe which conforms to the spirit,
if not the form, of the Kashaya Robe in that it is made from
the pieces of cheapest fabric, which are sewn and dyed by the
monk.

Japanese Buddhist monastics created many different robes, sacred as well
as ordinary clothing, and it seems like they have 20 words for each one. As
an example, I will simply mention the rakusu. In addition to the one
we’re familiar with at at this temple, there is the Okau, a larger rakusu
worn on the left shoulder (I believe that’s the style that looks a little
like you’re wearing a barrel by one suspender), the Hangesa or “half
kesa” given to lay people and the Wagesa or “small kesa” also
worn by lay people who have taken precepts.

Japanese rakusu have sewn designs on the straps, or on the collar
covering, where they fall across the back of the neck to indicate
denominational sects: Soto is a pine, Rinzai is a mountain-shaped
triangle, and Obaku is a six-pointed star. In addition, Rinzai
and Soto traditions sew a large flat ring on the left strap. This
ring is not functional, but recalls the shoulder fasteners of
the full-length kesa. As a result of a reform movement
known as the fukudenkai in the mid-20th century, some Soto Zen
groups have eliminated the rakusu ring.

Buddhism entered Vietnam from India and later from China, although
the Chinese forms became dominant. The Vietnamese prefer
a close-fitting sleeve on the kimono, again illustrating that
robe style often begins with an adaptation of a culture’s
normal clothing and becomes institutionalized. A similar situation
applies to the Vietnamese pajama-like work clothes: a monastic
uniform, but not sacred clothing.

Within the Tibetan or Vajrayana tradition, the culture once again
adapted the “triple robe.” Ordained male and
female clerics wear a sleeveless tunic and lower robe or skirt. The
Tibetan Kashaya Robe is variously called shamtab (five strips),
chogu, or namba (25 strip, for high ordination).

American robes, such as they are to date, are largely determined
by a teacher’s tradition. Variations occur due to
personal preference, convictions, understanding, or simply opportunity. And
sometimes, speaking for myself, it’s all about comfort.

Although the essential Buddhist robe was the Kashaya Robe, there
have been variations in quality of material ever since the Buddha’s
time. In the Pali tradition, six kinds of cloth are allowed for
making the upper and outer robes of the “triple robe”:
plant fibers, cotton, silk, animal hair (not human), hemp, and
a mixture of some or all of them. There are other lists
of materials, but it’s clear that a variety of fabrics
were used throughout. Some were sumptuous. Some were simple
or easy-care. Certainly, most of Asia seems to be using
man-made fabrics right now. In the ultimate sense, of course,
any material could be used, provided there is no attachment.

With reference to attachment, one interesting thing that is prohibited
in the Vinaya is “sewing cowries shells or owls' wings” onto
robes. Evidently, some of the Buddha’s monks
were adorning their robes and had to be restricted in their artistic
or preening tendencies. When the Chinese embroidered
scenes in gold thread in their ceremonial kesa, or the Japanese
took a single elaborate weaving and simulated the pieced, rice
field pattern by appliqueing brocade dividing strips, perhaps
sewn to one edge only so that the loosely attached strips swayed
like tatters -- do you suppose that they were truly not attached? Not
that I’m not appreciative of the craft and beauty of these
kesa. I’m just wondering.

This finally brings me to color, back to the concept of kashaya – broken
or variegated color – which probably was in a spectrum
from yellow to a reddish brown from being washed and dyed with
plant materials, sometimes saffron or tumeric. Because
the materials and dyestuffs vary, colors are not consistent. They
also fade and become soiled. According to Seung Sahn Sunim,
the Korean Zen master, during the Buddha’s time, the monks
wore yellow robes, because that was the color of the dirt and
didn’t show soil when the wind was blowing.

In modern times, monastics of the Theravadan tradition in Sri
Lanka, Cambodia, Thailand or Laos usually continue this tradition
of saffron or ochre robes. One source I encountered claimed
that forest monks wear ochre while city monks wear saffron, but
concluded that this is not always the case.

Monastics in the Mahayana tradition wear many different colors,
according to region, country, sect and ordination level. When
Buddhism came to China, color changed and changed again; different
temples in various regions wore different colors: yellow, light
golden brown, brown, grey or blue, shades of black: pitch black,
grey black. During the Tang Dynasty, the emperor awarded
purple robes and honorary titles to high-level monks.

Japanese monastics usually wear grey or black. They adopted
the purple kesa tradition, which was revoked in the 17th Century
under the Tokugawa Shogunate. The emperor abdicated in
protest and monks who resisted, no matter how high, were exiled.

Koreans wear grey, brown or blue robes.

In the Vietnamese Zen tradition the kimono robes are brown or
yellow, or somewhere in between, and the kesa are yellow to orange. At
IBMC, after 10 years at high ordination, the cleric may wear
a red kesa.

The colorful robes of the Vajrayana tradition of Tibet range
from the simple to some of the most elaborate in the world, from
bright yellow to orange to maroon to a purplish-red according
to School and Dharma level. Their versions of the Kashaya
Robe are usually yellow. If their sleeveless tunic is trimmed
with yellow brocade or they are wearing yellow silk and satin
as normal attire, they are probably eminent monks or considered
living Buddhas.

Americans tend to follow the color coding associated with their
teacher’s tradition, although we do have a tendency toward
individualism and downright contrariness when it comes to formalization. Our
Rev. Kusala once suggested that American Buddhist robes might
be blue denim.

As an example of how schools assign colors according to Dharma
level, here’s what I think I know about IBMC’s Americanized
Vietnamese Zen. Monks and priests wear some shade of brown
robes with yellow/orange kesas. Fully ordained priests
may additionally wear yellow collars or yellow piping around
the collar. Laypeople, whether taking Refuge or atangasilas
(eight-precept ordainees such as myself, Nam, Doug and Gary)
wear the rakusu and, while not entitled to wear the larger kesa,
we do get to wear these spiffy grey non-sacred robes.

One Soto Zen website mentions that Bodhisattvas wear black or
dark brown kesas, so I guess IBMC and a large part of Japan are
pretty far advanced.

With respect to bib-like rakusu, colors may reflect those of
the kesa. At IBMC, ours are gold. In Korea, the half-kasa
is brown. Or they may be a different, contrasting color
to the kasa. In China, Chan-style rakusu are white. The
Japanese wear blue, brown or black, with their rakusu first given
during Refuge. No matter what color faces out, the Japanese back
them with white cloth, on one side of which teacher writes
the “Verse of the Kesa” while on the other, he writes
his name, the student’s dharma name and the date of the
Refuge ceremony. In Soto Zen, blue is for laypeople, black
is for priests, and brown is the highest, for people who have
received Dharma transmission from a lineage teacher.

However,
not all Soto temples, even in Japan, follow the Dharma level
color coding. One might receive a brown rakusu at lay ordination
at one temple, but be chided at another temple for wearing a
color reserved for someone at a much higher level. This actually
happened to someone at two American Zendos.

Confusing? Yes,
and that’s simply mundane style and color. Here’s
a quick rundown of the symbolism of the Buddha’s Robe.

Kesa or Kashaya Robes, whether small and large, today are almost
entirely “Symbol.” They are the Buddhist’s
connection with the Tathagata. In Buddhist numerology,
five is the number of the Buddha, which is echoed by the five-folds
and five points of the rectangle: east, west, north, south, and
middle. The Kashaya Robe is the robe of the renunciant,
wherein the discards of the world are made pure and precious,
yet the rice field pattern also represents and encompasses the
world, in all the fecundity of agriculture. It can also
be regarded as a mandala, geometric patterns of squares and lines
which represent the universe and serve as a meditation object
on many levels. The little squares on each corner represent
the four directions or, perhaps, each of the Buddhist Dharma
protectors. The center column is sometimes said to represent
the Buddha, and the two flanking squares his attendants.

"The kesa is the heart of Zen, the marrow of its bones," said Eihei
Dogen, (1200-53 CE) who established the Soto branch of the Zen in Japan. It
is the physical doctrinal symbol, the essence of Transmission, and essential
to a sense of legitimacy. Dogen studied in China and received the kesa of a
Chinese Zen patriarch who had lived a century earlier.

Dogen was somewhat fanatical on the subject of kesa, proselytizing
its profound virtues, lamenting the decadent period wherein it
provided the only lifeline and yet was so neglected. I
recommend his Kesa Kudoku (The Merit of the Buddha Robe), Chapter
3 of his great work the Shobogenzo, which waxes poetic on the
subject, while providing practical information concerning the
making, care and use of the garment. I can provide copies by
email if you are interested.

He wrote, “… one verse of the ‘Robe Gatha,’ [also
known as the Verse of the Kesa]… will become the seed
of eternal light, which will finally lead us to the supreme Bodhi-wisdom.” The
Robe Gatha is a Zen chant which is said before one puts on the
Kesa or Rakusu.

Here is one translation:

How great the robe of liberation
A formless field of merit.
Wrapping ourselves in Buddha’s teaching,
We save all beings.

Pretty marvelous, isn’t it? However, a cautionary
story about the robes, appearances and reality comes to us from
the founder of Rinzai Zen, Master Lin-chi I-hsuan, who lived
in the 9th century CE, who said,

“… I put on various different robes…The
student concentrates on the robe I'm wearing, noting whether
it is blue, yellow, red, or white. Don't get so taken up with
the robe! The robe can't move of itself; the person is the one
who can put on the robe. There is a clean pure robe, there is
a no birth robe, a bodhi robe, a nirvana robe, a patriarch robe,
a Buddha robe. Fellow believers, these sounds, names, words,
phrases are all nothing but changes of robe … Because
of mental processes thoughts are formed, but all of these are
just robes. If you take the robe that a person is wearing to
be the person's true identity, then though endless kalpas may
pass, you will become proficient in robes only and will remain
forever circling round in the threefold world, transmigrating
in the realm of birth and death."

Perhaps
it is not a good thing to become too impressed or too attached,
even to the kesa, although Master Dogen might disagree. Some
American Buddhists chafe against robes as representative of the
hierarchy of Asian Buddhism; they wonder if robes have any value. Some
wonder if different robes encourage comparisons such as, “who
is most enlightened?” or “who is the senior here?” Some
believe robes intimidate newcomers or encourage pride as one
advances. And some just don’t like the inherent formalism
or the implied elitism. Many Americans, simply wear their
robes or just a rakusu over ordinary clothes. Rev. S’unya
often replaces his pajamas with Heartland Zen brown overalls. Perhaps
we *are* developing American Buddhist robes. But then again,
perhaps not: the Sangha at Spirit Rock in Northern California
has decided not to wear robes or differentiating insignia at
all.

As a final point and to thank you all for listening to me, I
would like to address one additional aspect of the Tradition
of Buddha’s Robe. Although I’ve run through
the quick guide as to who wears what, when and why, I’d
also like to leave you with a proactively positive way of approaching
life with the help of the Buddha’s Robe.

In the Lotus Sutra, the great, some say the greatest, Mahayana
Sutra, we encounter a specific concept of “putting on the
Buddha’s Robe.” This appears in Chapter 10, “Teacher
of the Law,” which addresses how to communicate with others,
specifically when discussing Dharma. But I believe it is
applicable to our everyday lives, whether chatting about the
weather or politics or sitting, alone, with ourselves.

In this chapter, Shakyamuni Buddha explains “the three
rules of teaching,” one of which is that a teacher must, “put
on the Thus Come One's robe,” before trying to teach the
Lotus Sutra.

In the Sutra, Buddha is speaking metaphorically; he explains
that his Robe is “a mind that is gentle and forebearing.” What
does this mean? Gentle seems easy enough. Forebearing, or perseverance,
seems to me to be the echo of Zen’s Great Effort, this
time applied to communication. If we, as a people, were
able to combine kindness with willingness to stay engaged in
dialogue, even when disagreement, criticism or misunderstanding
arise, a great many problems might simply be talked away. Unkindness
breeds; if someone does not understand or rejects our position,
we are tempted to return the favor. Rejection leads to
anger or disengagement, our cliché of fingers-in-ears “La,la,la,
I can’t hear you,” often resulting in frustration
and sorrow. We lose the opportunity to communicate.

I believe that “gentle forebearance” comes from a
resolve to develop one’s center – it nurtures
seeds of equanimity. This requires inner strength, but
also an open mind. Such a tremendous amount of effort
is involved in simply acting, rather than reacting, in not becoming
too attached to what you believe, to being right – because
if you personalize dogma, it becomes a fixed barrier to dialogue,
any attempt at discussion swirls around it and crashes.

This is not to say that one should be passively meek and it’s
not a quid pro quo kind of situation. “I’ll
be nice if you’ll be nice,” is not the goal here,
although it is a nice side effect of being respectful. In fact,
I think we should approach communication without expectation
of reaching agreement or even understanding.

I may believe that, but I rarely achieve it. However, I
offer this Dharma talk to you all in that spirit! May you
all be warmly wrapped in Buddha’s Robe, open to dialogue
but firm in your resolve and effort, and not perturbed by the
questions of Buddhist couture.